Rave Reviews

I found this while going through some of my writings from a while back. I think, rather than wasting valuable time and energy attempting to create fresh material, I'll simply purge my vast stores of previously written material! I will become like unto a fountain of new media.

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Here's what people are saying about Max Naylor, author of

Bourbon, Ash, and Netflix Trash

"I've known Max for years. He's quite a man. His words are something that everyone should experience before they die."

-Tom Stoppard, Ed. Misanthrope Quarterly

"Something like Mr. Naylor's poetry comes along rarely. It's a wonderful thing."

-Jules Kahain, Author

"I really don't think I can talk about it right now."

-Meredith Beck, Ex-Girlfriend

"I met him in a bar in Manhattan eight years ago. He was complaining about the heat. He hasn't changed much."

-Pavil Florescu, Columnist

"Him? Kind of a dick. Good writer though."

-Philip J. Woo, Poet/Barista

"Floating across the bay I told him I loved his book, that he should put the gun down. Later, after he'd shot out the bottom of my boat, we went fishing off the pier. I loved that boat."

-Theodore Crenshaw, Former Yachtsman

"No comment."

-Meredith Beck, Ex-Girlfriend

"His book changed my life."

-Cecil Warmueller, Publishist

"His book's alright, but he's not well. I don't think he's left his apartment in two months."

-Elizabeth Warmeuller, Nosy-Nancy

"This isn't the time to discuss this, Max. Just let me get on with my life. Stop calling me."

-Meredith Beck, Ex-Girlfriend

"You're a monster."

-Meredith Beck, Girlfriend

"Max Naylor buys, Max Naylor pays. Max Naylor hails on my rainy days."

-Keith Killarney, Satirist/Idiot

"Comparing Max to Tolstoy, to Bradbury, even to Martin, would be an almost certain comparison."

-Rube Thompson, Critic/Part-Time Raconteur

"Hello? Hello? Max, is this you? I can hear you breathing. You need to stop this."

-Meredith Beck, Totally Still Girlfriend

"He lent me a copy of his book, once. Kept saying I should read it. It's alright, I guess."

-Ed Stanton, Owner, Discount Surveillance Depot

"Mr. Naylor? We've received multiple complaints about you harassing one Meredith Beck?"

-Officer Stanley Crutchpike, Professional Meddler

"The book is somewhere between Melville and Bukowski. In the living room. I'll get to it eventually."

-Tom Naylor, Sarcast/Father/Coot

"No, I don't have any comment on his book, I just... wait... is this you, Max?"

-Meredith Beck, Overly Suspicious Girlfriend

"I told you to stop calling me! It's over! When are you going to get this through your head?"

-Meredith Beck, Fiance'

"I would never marry you! This would be scary if you weren't so pathetic! Fuck you, Max! Leave me the fuck alone!"

-Meredith Beck, Temporarily Estranged Lover

"No, I don't have any quotes for your fucking novel! That's it!"

-Meredith Beck, Wife and Mother

"A real page turner. Sure."

-Anon., Man Outside Courthouse

"...and Mr. Naylor is to remain no less than 500 yards away form Ms. Beck at all times..."

-Judge Nathan Stockholm

"Goodbye, Max. I don't ever want to see you again. You come near the house again and I'll have you locked the fuck up with all your other degenerate friends. Burn in fucking hell, you demon."

-Meredith Beck, Bitch

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Jokes written two years ago: Hilarious.

Bovine University

I've been gone for months. Sorry. I wrote this recently, and figured I'd throw it up here before I lost August. O, sweet August, you have always been good to me.

I will not forsake you.

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Halloween II




I said it when I watched Rob Zombie's first take on the Halloween franchise, and by God I'll say the same for this movie. I absolutely loved this film. I think it's great, and I think everyone should see it at least once.

It is hilarious.

Halloween II, like its precursor, is the laugh riot you've been waiting for all summer. I don't even know who Judd Apatow is anymore. Rob Zombie has captured comedy in a bottle, and to see just how he's done that is an amazing journey.

Halloween II begins focused on family, continuing to explore the psychology of Michael Myers as a boy, played by Chase Wright Vanek, in a stilted and strange scene shared with Zombie's wife and ill-advised quintessential leading lady Sheri Moon Zombie. Also featuring strongly in the movie is Myers' long-lost sister Laurie, played by Scout Taylor-Compton.

Chase Wright. Sheri Moon. Scout. Taylor. Hyphen. Compton.

Does it cause this generations' parents physical pain to name their children Mary, or Amanda, or even Michael? Does every family have to have a son named "Ranger" and a daughter named "The Hantavirus?" Sarah. Daniel.

Bob.

A quick search of Amazon.com offered 22,388 results for books on baby names, and I'm sure they're not all "Android" and "Philibuster." Seriously, invest in your children's future.

The image of a white horse is repeated throughout the film, and is particularly significant because, in dreams, a white horse represents rage and violence. I don't know that because I have studied the analysis and subtext of film using Jung's psychology and Freud's extensive dream analysis. I know that because Rob Zombie was thoughtful enough to include a title card with the explanation of the symbolism as the opening of the film. This then leads almost immediately to a young Mike Myers explaining to his mother that he has dreams about a white horse. You see.




Is it subtext if the director hands it to you on a silver platter? And then uses the platter to bash the idea into your goddamn brains?

After the title cards, Zombie reaches into his limited deck of everlasting film tropes existent in the slasher sub-genre of horror films when Mike Myers, presumed dead and being transported by van, is brought back to life after an unexpected and gruesome collision with a cow in the middle of the road.

Let's put aside the ridiculousness of that fact for a moment.

The film plays out pretty much as anyone who has ever seen a movie without the word "Princess" or "Adventure" in the title could guess. Myers unstoppably slaughters a population equivalent to Lollapalooza and is then stopped by his long-lost sister. I would have warned you about spoilers, but if that is a spoiler to you then you are ten, and should not be reading such malicious invective as this to begin with. Go finish your homework and tell your mother you love her.

Or... you know... she'll come back as a ghost towing a white horse and make you kill people. Or something.

What amazes me the most about this film is, as unconcerned as Zombie is with plot and as diligently as he attempts to include as little of it as possible in this exercise, the points he does choose to accentuate are so bizarre and disjointed. Apart from being the long-lost sister of Michael Myers, Laurie is revealed to be violently vegetarian, vomiting when a piece of meat touches her veggie pizza.

Also confusing is Michael's mother and the manifestation of him as a child, which appear not only to him but eventually to Laurie herself, at one point physically restraining her. This means the film is either about ghosts or about the shared psychic resonance between Michael Myers and his sister.

Neither of these options offer any explanation about what the hell is going on in this movie.

A too-long sequence juxtaposing the family's pizza feast with Myers' eating a recently slaughtered dog is one of the more inexplicable moments of the film, and seems to be the attempted narrative equivalent of watching Faces of Death while sitting naked on a pile of bees. Zombie sincerely seems less interested in truly terrifying us and more in showing us pictures of dead kittens or rubbing dirt in our face. Man, doesn't that shit make you uncomfortable, America?

Truly disturbing is just how uninspired these "gory" and "horrific" sequences come across. He's really trying to challenge us with Myers stabbing someone over and over. Grunting while he's doing it, throwing out the eerie and perpetual silence of any previous incarnation. Then, just when you think you've had enough, he stabs someone else, and the background designer and makeup artist throw about three gallons worth of clotted corn syrup around the set and call it a revolution in horror cinema.

It's 2009, Rob. I have the internet, and I have a lot more free time than you. I have seen shit that would un-rat your dreds.




But am I prepared to write off this movie based on the at-best-average murders and inexplicable attempts at any kind of plot where they are for now? Can we call it a hilarious attempt at horror and move on?

No. Good people, because I am the only man in America who understands what Halloween is really all about. I mean, I really get it.

Let us look, for a moment, at the events leading up to the violent impetus of Halloween 2.

Soon after the film begins and we are out of the dream sequence (and dear God, Rob Zombie, do you even understand what a film cliche' is?), the newly resurrected Myers meanders around for about a year doing little more, it would seem, than growing a beard and looming. The footage we see of Myers before he returns to his time-honored homicidal tendencies is of a peaceful and pensive being, wandering through fields and occasionally entering barns to catch glimpses of the semi-hallucinated apparition of his mother and younger self. He only truly begins his rampage after a year of silence, when he is assaulted by a clan of rednecks in front of the antler-adorned fender of their pickup truck.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Michael Myers is possessed by a cow.





The body of Mike Myers, ostensibly and demonstrably dead in the back of a van, is waylaid en route to the morgue by a rogue heifer in the middle of the road. The spirit of this cow, cut down in the prime of its uneventful life, enters the deceased husk of Myers and exacts swift and brutal vengeance on its assailants, the van's occupants.

Don't believe me?

Every time we see Myers he is wandering aimlessly through farmland. He seeks out a barn for shelter. He is enraged at being attacked by a group of shitkickers who bear evidence of hunting and slaying his horned brethren.

Michael Myers is a cow out for revenge.



Perhaps the most notable piece of evidence toward this end is the one time Zombie chooses to buck (pun intended?) typical horror film boilerplate, when the only person spared from the wrath of this murderous steer is not someone who has abstained from sex, drinking or drugs. No, the largest sin that Myers can contemplate is the consumption of his own, and thus the only person left alive is his sister, Laurie, who Zombie takes careful time to point out is a vegetarian.

As a Halloween movie, it's laughably bad. Any homage or attempt at fidelity to the original, all the things that made Michael Myers terrifying and stoic, are taken out and replaced with bad puns and poorly-concieved notions of how actual people speak to each other. There really doesn't need to be any Michael Myers imagery in the film at all. Get a different mask, change the killer's name, and you have a completely different movie, indistinguishable from anything remotely related to the Halloween franchise. In fact, go ahead and do that, Rob. Take fifteen minutes to iron out the rewrite and you could have your own completely original, albeit hysterical, addition to horror cinema.

Call it Mad Cow.

Rob Zombie has taken the slasher film to a new and amazing height in that he himself has become the rampaging, directionless psychopath, turning his rage on the genre itself. He is no different than Mike Myers in the singular, insistent, and unmotivated brutality he visits on the only milieu that he, in his persona as Living Dead Director, has allowed himself. Congratulations, Rob. You did what Jamie Lee Curtis could never do no matter how hard she tried, how loud and obnoxiously she screamed, or how many sequels she attempted as a rematch.

You killed Michael Myers.

Conjunctiva

My eye is a disconcerting blood red.

And I have never looked prettier.



PIC RELATED.

Class with a Capital Crime

I like to think of myself as a debonair person. A man of distinction and taste. I like to think, despite any evidence to the contrary, that I am a person of class, and I lord this over people accordingly.

I enjoy a fine cigar and a nice glass of bourbon (rocks will be fine, thank you. Keep your soda pop the hell away from my alcohol, you drug-addled sophomore). I love the arts and think about their significance in a modern world. I like to wear my suit.

Hell yes, it's purple.

However, every now and then, my little glass globe of self-actualization is shattered upon the Escher-cribbed staircases in the climactic Labyrinth scene of reality.

It's a good metaphor. Listen to my story, damn it.

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I've decided to throw a little get-together next Saturday. A little house-warming party now that a) I've been living here for two months and b) I need to force myself to make this place livable. By setting a time limit on when exactly I need to have this place ready by, lest I embarrass myself, I am forcing myself to do all the little homey things I want to do but, unfortunately, have proven myself far too lazy to get up an hour earlier each day and take care of. So, I've picked up some essentials, I've finished the lights and gotten a working refrigerator, and have been looking for things that I think are exceptionally... classy.

One such thing is a decanter. I've been looking all over the place for a cut glass bottle with a stopper to hoard my liquor in. I equate the classiness of a decanter to the classiness of a straight razor. It's almost a meditative process, moving the alcohol form the bottle to the decanter, moving the alcohol from the decanter to the glass. Like an ice bucket, ice from the freezer, to the bucket, to the glass. Each extra step requires that much more thoughtfulness, like a Japanese tea ceremony. It's not something to be rushed.

Unfortunately, mot decanters seem to come in either the "God fuck that's expensive" or "What an ugly little shit of a blown glass piece" variety. I was having trouble finding anything both handsome and not a thousand dollars. Strangely, these are the same requirements I apply to prostitutes.

Finally, on craigslist of all places, I found someone in Yorba Linda selling a collection of six, mind you, six decanters for forty dollars. The lot. Some were crystal, some were antique.

They would all be mine.

Because of my ridiculous schedule, contacting the owner was hard, but after a few left messages I learned that the woman was Asian, a little bit nervous on the phone, and ready to get rid of these things quick. I finally talked to her in person on my day off when I was able to call during the afternoon, and she said I could pick them up immediately. Well, happy to oblige, mama-san.

We made arrangements and I set out. I had not driven into Yorba Linda for a while, and as I got deeper and deeper into the neighborhood, driving my malfunctioning, dented and unwashed pickup truck I began to feel out of place. I ride horses every day, but these were people who owned horses. Horses that were somewhere else. And weren't that large of a chunk of their budget.

I pulled up to the house and knocked on the door. She answered, and I smiled and introduced myself as nicely as I could. This is when our agreed upon discource must have fractured.

You see, this woman looked exactly like she sounded. She sounded like a well-dressed, middle-aged Asian woman fond of pearl jewelery and, I suppose, crystal decanters, and she was a well-dressed, middle-aged Asian woman fond of pearl jewelery and, I suppose, crystal decanters. I sounded like an educated, literate young man, with an interest in the finer things in life and a pleasant attitude. With my ratty corduroys, secondhand sportjacket and two-month beard, I looked like someone shot Jeremiah Johnson our of a circus cannon and through a thrift store. She said she would open the garage for me, and quickly closed the door.

It became clear to me that a very real part of this woman's mind believed, in all earnestness, that I was there to case the joint. She didn't want me in her house once she saw me, otherwise she would have met me at the garage. She made the decision once she'd laid eyes on me to keep me from seeing all the treasures hiding within her home. Smart move, Miss Saigon, very smart. A little untrusting, perhaps, but shrewd. And who knows? Maybe I would have. If there was something there that I wanted enough, who's to say that it wouldn't drive me to return there some night, when I was certain they were out celebrating Chinese New Year or some made-up holiday like that and savaging the place? Maybe I was going to rob her after all.

I began to look around the neighborhood, wondering if people were looking out their windows and wondering who that strange man was at Mrs. Ling's house (ed: her name was not Mrs. Ling. Probably). I began to get a little paranoid, and thought I could see movement in the large topiary garden across the brick path leading next door.

Who needs a path going to their neighbors? It's the only other place you know you don't need directions to. It's the next house down, man.

The garage door opened with me too close, and I deftly dodged it making a squawking noise I thought would break the ice. Michelle (her name) instead showed me the bag holding the treasure. I inspected each one carefully, then repacked them clumsily in the bag. So inexpert was my packing that she then corrected it, lest I hurt my own possessions.

I made a point not to look around. I didn't want to start appraising the contents of the tool shelf, or the relative ease with which I could access this back door.

She tries to hock another decanter off on me. It was ugly, with a picture of a boat on it. I said thanks and left.

Now, I have six good decanters, all for less than I would have paid for one good one. And yes, I could have paid more for a nicer one, but I made an older Asian woman uncomfortable and nervous with the threat of larceny and possible violence.

And by god, what's classier than that?

The Southern Igloopus

...In which we examine the life cycle and behavioral habits of octopus beachkulerus, better known as the Southern Igloo Octopus.




We begin our voyage at sunset in the vast, uncharted land oceans of Southern California, specifically the tepid waters of the Anaheim coast. There, we find the habitat of the Igloo Octopus, a fascinating and rarely-encountered species.




In short order, a fine specimen is caught and scrutinized. Known for its bright coloration and ferocious temper when confronted, this little fella didn't seem to pleased to be brought from its home among the dark kelp forests and labyrinthine coral reefs into the harsh and clinical world of a oceanographic research laboratory, but was soon calmed by an offering of mackerel, its favorite dietary staple, laced with a mixture of generic-brand Vodka and Mexican codeine. Thus placated, the examination could begin.





With an armspan measuring approximately three inches and a body length of approximately four inches, the Igloo Octopus is hardly a presupposing character, especially when compared to its cousin, the giant Northern Pacific, or even the Brookside Medley Octopus (known for its prehensile horns and love of quiet seclusion). The orange coloration visible on its mantle and at the tips of its tentacles identify the specimen as a juvenile, though its size is perhaps the most misleading of any accurate aging method.

The Igloo Octopus has a curious developmental trait that separates it from any of its cephalopod relatives. To demonstrate this effect, the specimen is placed within a man-made simulation of its natural habitat, the Southern California coastal "igloo."




The "igloos" the octopus would choose as its home in the wild are communal systems comprising organisms such as coral, krill, live rock and polyps which exist in a cooperative polyhabitation. The shape of the igloo container is formed as the separate organisms band together to create a "murder hole" in which nutrients and prey can be caught, kept, and consumed at leisure. Like the clownfish to the sea anemone, the Southern Igloo Octopus, or Igloopus, has a symbiotic relationship with free-growing igloos, and can not be harmed by the amalgamation's digestive enzymes or poisonous barbs. While the recreation above is easily confused with its naturally occurring counterpart, we assure you this version was hand-made by craftsman at our labs back in Gainesville, Florida, and is composed of artificial materials such as polystyrene, neoprene, and dreams.





The specimen is placed within the tank, which will serve as both home and inescapable prison to the beast in the following weeks during the course of our experiment.




Threatened by the invasive examination and rising from its sedative-induced stupor, the Igloopus sulks to the bottom of the container, and releases a soupy cloud of thick, milky "cum," the animal's primary defense technique.

To properly observe the effect of the habitat on the animals, we will allow this juvenile enough time to enter the next stage of its life cycle, at which point we will again visit the enclosure to catalogue its progress.

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ONE MONTH LATER

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A month has passed, and the artificial coral igloo stands stoically in the failing light of a beautiful day. The craftsmanship and attention to detail of the unit is substantiated by the environment around it, as nature has begun to take back even those heathen ingredients unnaturally ripped from her bounty.




Near a plastic big containing a bra and two DVDs, a spider has built a web adjoining the cask. It is unclear whether or not Steven Turbow of Century 21 aided in its search for proper housing, though the arachnid does seem to be in possession of corroborating paperwork.





It may not appear obvious at first glance upon opening the igloo after lo these many days, and the water provides enough distortion to fool the eye, but here is perfectly demonstrated the peculiar behavior of "rapid localized gigantism."




As a juvenile, the igloopus will choose a fledgling coral igloo as its nest, and will spend the rest of its life there, leaving only to mate and occasionally to hunt for food when scavengings from the igloo's prey are scarce.




As the myriad creatures that make up the igloo mature, the igloo itself grows. This is where the fascinating adaptation of the igloopus comes into play. As the igloo grows in size, so does the igloopus, growing through some miracle of evolution exactly as large as his lair will allow. No more, no less. When the igloo has finished its maturation, the octopus will have also reached the end of its growth stage, and will occupy the fullest amount of space possible for the igloo to still function. If an igloopus, at full maturity, is taken out of its home igloo and placed in a larger space, it may still grow long after the maturation process has ended, the body attempting to better fill its new surroundings.



Since the igloopus has yet to reach sexual maturity in its relatively short lifespan, we will once again return it to its prefabricated den.




Hopefully, when once again we return, the igloopus will continue to show us the wonderment of this unique attribute. And, hopefully,




I'll still be wearing an extremely attractive shirt.

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YET ANOTHER MONTH LATER CAN YOU BELIEVE IT

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Oh, now this is a real treat. A classic display of the genus' tendency to "stack" objects on and around the igloo when they feel insecure or hungry. The intelligence of this animal is readily apparent as, with only one previous return to the igloo container, already it has begun to anticipate our return, and took steps to safeguard its home. So like us.




By slapping aside the paltry obstruction and roughly extricating the beast form its lair, we can see that, while its coloration still denotes a juvenile state and, thus, the ability to grow, the limitations of its chosen igloo are such that it has already reached maximum volume for its sanctuary, and thus has changed little since last we saw it, certainly nowhere near the enormous difference between our last visit and its initial capture.

Our experiment over, the octopus will need to be coaxed back into a smaller mass ratio, that it might have better luck in finding a suitably immature igloo upon its release back into the wild.




We hope you've enjoyed this look into the nature of one of the most amazing and magnificent animals on this planet. Remember, there is much you can do to help save the Southern Igloo Octopus, including donating used beach coolers to the United Californian Coral Restructuring Concern, where they will be put to use much as our example above, as a renewable and durable substitute for the fragile and dwindling numbers of coral igloos.

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I'd like to be, under the sea...

A Star, a star...

Continuing our tradition of fine programming here on Dead Language, I'd like to present you with a recently submitted pilot. Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy our first installment of...




Hey guys and welcome to Which Animals Look the Most Like Gizmo?, where we ask the question...

Well, that's the question.

We wanted to know, with all the variety of life in God's great, googly biology, which of these wacky creations look the most like that adorable little mogwai from the classic film Gremlins.




Clearly this little bastard is unconscionably adorable, and it falls to us to weed out real-life animals that might bear enough of a resemblance to warrant keeping as a pet. The demand for domesticated mogwais after the 1984 release of the film increased by almost 1800% and, being that the critters are imaginary, a suitable replacement must be found that is both a) as adorable and b) housebroken.

Now. 23 years later.

So, without further ado, let's assess some candidates!

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Our first hopeful has already made the rounds on plenty of Lolcat sites and mom-emails. Please welcome...

That Scottish Fold Kitten!

He's already seen a lot of traffic on the tubes, and the basic recognition will go a long way toward simulating the familiarity we all have with Gizmo himself. Let's see if this helps his score!

Adorability: The scottish fold stands out as one of the cutest of the cat breeds, with its large beckoning eyes and its trademark floppy ears, distinctive among felines. Why the Scots felt it necessary to breed cats with limp ears is beyond me, but it does wonders for the animal's cuteness. Kittens are, of course, cuter than full grown cats (obeying the natural law of babies being exponentially cuter than their adult counterparts) and this little guy will eventually grow into a slightly uglier version of itself, but in the meantime we are left to bask in its cuddliness.

Resemblance: The face is good, and the coloration is not too far off. I would like to see more dark brown. In addition to this, he seems to be inquisitive about his surroundings, inspecting a nearby potted plant, reflecting Gizmo's own curious nature. However this, too, will fade with age, as will his relative sweetness until, most likely, you'll be left with a fat loaf of a cat with floppy ears and a mean temper.

Gizmodom: While soliciting a similar initial response of "OH MY GOD LOOK AT IT," as it ages this animal will seem not so much like the friendly creature from the film and more like every other lazy cat you've ever met, with nothing to show for itself other than a few early pictures of leaf-exploration and the faint smell of cat urine.

5 out of 10

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Good effort, little guy! Perhaps our next contestant will have more luck. Boys and Girls...

The Albino Pekingese!

It's small, its furry, and its being photographed on your grandma's throw! It seems to already have a strategy to win!

Adorability: Its stature is its strong point. Being a small dog, it already summons up sounds like "Awww" and "Awwwwwww" from sight alone. It's face, permanently frozen in a chummy smile, says, "Why hello! I would love to be your friend!" That being said, these little shits can get real mean, as in their upbringing most dog owners do not have the capacity to properly beat a tiny dog into the snuggly, submissive state necessary to offset the breeds natural tendency to yap, snap, and make on the rug.

Resemblance: We're going in the right direction here. Flat face? Check. Flesh-colored muzzle? Double check. Large ears that could presumably be shaved and starched out to the sides of the head? Lord yes. However, its albinism that grants it such a perfectly colored mouth area also detracts from its coat which, rather than the charming calico of Gizmo, is a haunting and ghostly white. Were this a contest for another 80s film animatronic character, this little guy would most definitely score higher.




Gizmodom: While superfluously similar, the creature's vacant stare and probable hideous personality take it out of the running as a real contender for the title. Rather, this monstrous little canine would most likely haunt the home of its residence with incessant yipping and would never once dance when played "Walking on Sunshine."

3 out of 10

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Whoa! Tough break for the mutant! Our next contestant is surely familiar to anyone who has frequented a movie theater in the last few decades. We present...

Yoda!

Yes, the wise old Jedi master has made his claim, and while the similarities may not be immediately evident, let's see what our judges think...


Adorability: Yoda has lot going for him. Small, facially expressive, and possessed of a wisdom from beyond the stars, you want to bundle him up and hold him in your arms, even as he fades from corporeal existence. His permanent grin and wiggly gait give him a transcendent koochy-koochy-ness that is hard to find in your average companion.

Resemblance: Bear with me here. Look at the flared ears. The flat and smiling muzzle. The kind eyes and pouty little mouth. Also, he can talk, a trait not encountered anywhere else on this roster, and that goes a long way. There's plenty of similarity here.

Gizmodom: Yoda looks exactly like a mogwai, if that mogwai were to mate with a crocodile, and their child was aged 800 years and mastered an ancient and powerful mysticism. Perhaps a younger member of Yoda's race might do better, but who's to say? After all, Yoda shares one of the most important and unfortunate characteristics of the common mogwai.

They aren't real.

6 out of 10

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Not bad for the Jedi Master! Finally, we think you'll be pleased with our last entry. Please enjoy...

The Tawny Frogmouth!

Adorability: Look at it! The stout stature, the engaged expression! Look at its squat little body and oversized mouth! The thing screams adorable! You want to hug it until it goes squeak! Maybe it will! Don't you want to know?! Don't you want to feel its downy, fur-like feathers against your chest?! Don't you want to keep it away from bright lights and adhere to a strange and badly-explained feeding schedule?!

Resemblance: As a bird, the Tawny Frogmouth has the chips stacked against it when compared to an obviously mammalian imaginary beast. However, its coat looks remarkably plush, its beak forms a fair similarity to Gizmo's nose and mouth, and I can't help thinking that the eyes for Gizmo's animatronic form were taken directly from the skull of one of these little dudes! That's a little gross, but come on! AWWWWW!

In addition, the Frogmouth is nocturnal, can sing (you like that, Albino Pekingese?), and reproduces by creating small round objects that eventually become more Tawny Frogmouths! If only they erupted from its back, we'd be set!

Gizmodom: While probably not all that Gizmo-like in nature, its appearance is indisputable and its inability to thwart your attempts to cuddle it make it an almost perfect substitute for a plush mogwai. As a pet, a bird might not be the best choice, but it will almost certainly never spawn a legion of hell-bent demons that will wreak havoc on your town and try to murder you with a chainsaw.

9 out of 10

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Congratulations, Tawny Frogmouth! You are, perhaps, the best member of nature's beastiary to wear the mantle of bearing a passing resemblance to a fake pet from a children's movie from a quarter of a century ago! Nicely done!

Until next time, folks... Bye Bye, Bill-y.

That's Not a Moon

There's been a lot of talk lately about the Large Hadron Collider. And by "talk," I mean, of course, people largely saying "Have you heard about the Large Hadron Collider?" Which is normally met with a "Yeah."

The subject is then abruptly dropped.




The Large Hadron Collider is essentially trying to reproduce the circumstances in which the creation of the universe might have happened. The Big Bang. There are some people who believe, to varying degrees of justification, that trying to reproduce the Big Bang under the Franco-Swiss border would be among those scientific experiments that fall under the category of "Sweet Fuck We're All Going to Blow the Hell Up."

Not that I agree with them. I don't. But if I'm wrong none of us will ever know it.

It's interesting, to say the least, that this thing is generation particle acceleration in cases up to 99.99% of the speed of light. Again: "Lord A' Mercy, Don't Do That Please The Explosions". All the things that seem to be situations we would want to be on the other side of the universe for, and at that still expecting a minor sunburn for the trouble, and it's happening next to Geneva.

There are theorists, largely crackpots and quacks, who think it's going to tear a hole into a dimension made entirely of jagged teeth that can only sate their hunger by the devouring of your most delicate genitals. They think that they could quite literally destroy the planet if they turn that thing on.

Again.

Yeah, they turned it on the 10th of September, 2008, and it failed the 12th. Why? The battery ran out.

Way to go guys.

What distresses me the most about the project, however, are not the potential biblical disasters or the Keystone Koppery of a few Swiss physicists. No. What distresses me the most is that this...




...which is supposed to be this symbol of our futuristic modern age, our superior technological capabilities, and our greater understanding of the inner workings of the universe looks suspiciously similar to this:




Suddenly, the prospect of this organization being able to destroy a planet like ours isn't that unthinkable. I watched the motherfuckers destroy Alderaan without blinking an eye, I don't think they'd have any problems notching a non-Core planet onto their belts. We're not even part of the Galactic Republic.

All I'm saying is that, as a species, we should try to keep things in perspective. Yes, there's a chance that the contraption could go critical and the world would pass through some kind of dimensional rift rendering us all 909 counterparts, rendering us unable to resist the allure of rattling gasoline-powered dirt-traversing machinations or women with bleached-to-the-point-of-poison-control-blonde hair named Trystin and Kayliene (and O what a hellish world those bastard would have wrought upon us were that to be our fate)...

But alternately we could all be under the unyielding and tyrannical governance of a clearly evil empire, whose main figureheads look, if anything, like the Ghost of Christmas future and the Ghost of Christmas Future from the future, who have no qualms about destroying your star system, slaughtering anyone you ever loved, and choking you to death from a hundred light-years away.

I think I'd rather buy a flatbill hat and move to Temecula.

But just barely.

Folks, we got Death Star.